


The Three Times Natalia Romanova Surprised Clint Barton and the One Time She Didn't

by volchitsa



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Budapest, F/M, SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volchitsa/pseuds/volchitsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think the title is pretty self-explanatory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Three Times Natalia Romanova Surprised Clint Barton and the One Time She Didn't

Clint Barton had been assigned jobs not unlike this one on a near weekly basis for as long as he could remember; his target was a rogue agent that needed to be taken down immediately with little to no civilian involvement. Not a problem in the slightest; assignments like these were almost like a temporary relief for him, a relaxing vacation away from SHIELD in some exotic country he would have never visited otherwise.

This time, he found himself in a tiny village just outside of Moscow, the cold winds whipping at his back as he set himself up on the roof of a relatively tall building. His target was some Russian spy, he was told, with fire for hair and a poison kiss. The Black Widow, they called her, real name Natalia Romanova. Clint could recite her information like the alphabet, having read the entire case file given to him by Fury – along with brushing up on his Russian, which was admittedly rusty – and memorizing every word.

She was a super spy, a brainwashed slave to the underground workings of the country, and possibly the only target Clint had gone after that he was actually looking forward to finishing off. Not that he delighted in the thought of killing her, or anyone for that matter, but the Black Widow had already taken out two of his fellow assassins-for-hire and had to be stopped.

Clint exhaled slowly, lining up his sights on where he knew his target would appear. He had trailed her for days, watching her every move from his safe perch on top of his building, stalking his prey and waiting for the right time to strike. He only had one shot, and he had to make it count, or he was dead.

He checked his watch. She was due to leave the building in five, four, three...

A shot went off and Clint instinctively ducked down under his rifle, heart suddenly pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. It didn't sound like it was coming for him, but it was close. He chanced a peek down at the street below him – he had been watching so carefully, what the hell happened? – and could not believe his own eyes.

The Black Widow stood in the middle of the street, pistol in hand, pointing up at the building opposite Clint. She was saying something in Russian to the people around her, barking orders and sending them running off. Then, without a word, she turned to where Clint was waiting with his gun.

Shit. She knew he was here the whole time.

“Close one!” she called up to him, her English much better than he had expected. When he didn't reveal any more of himself than the top of his head and his eyes, she laughed. “Catch you next time, Hawkeye,” she purred, tucking her gun into the waistband of her jeans and disappearing into a nearby building, one that Clint knew had an underground passage.

Once she was out of sight, he was finally able to breathe again. She knew him, knew he was there the whole time, knew he was there to kill her, but didn't act on it. Why not?

It was only when Clint stood up to dismantle his rifle that he saw the dead sniper on the building opposite him, a bullet hole clear as day on his forehead.

-

He had spent the weeks after their first encounter tracking her down, following her and waiting for his perfect moment to strike. He had never given up on a mission before, and now was not a good time to break that streak. When that time finally came, when he had her pinned against a wall in a back alley in Nizhny Novgorod with a gun pressed to her temple, he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger.

“You're good, Agent Barton,” she said huskily, brushing a long strand of fire red hair behind her ear. “Very good. I'm impressed.” He managed a tight-lipped smile, grabbing her by the upper arm and walking her toward the nearest hotel.

“You will stay with me tonight,” he hissed as they walked in, moving his hand down to hers and plastering a grin across his face. He was a good liar, one of the best. But the Black Widow outshone him; as Clint talked to the hotel attendant about a room for him and his new bride, Natalia giggled in his ear, whispering to him in Russian with the voice of a lovesick teenager. The second they got the room, however, she tried to get as far away from him as possible, sitting on the edge of her chair as he fiddled with his various weapons on the bed.

“Why didn't you kill me?” she asked suddenly, shattering the silence in the room and momentarily scrambling Clint's focus. “I mean, I was right there, and you had a gun, it was simple, I would have taken the shot--”

“It didn't feel right,” he interrupted, not tearing his eyes away from the weapons he had sprawled across the bed. He counted them over and over again in his head, reciting their names and parts and calibers like he had Natalia's information. Systematic and ordinary, like this hit should have been. He began putting everything back in his case, matching up parts and closing the lid with an audible sigh.

“I'm sleeping on the bed,” he rasped, sitting on the edge and removing his boots. He looked up at her now, noticing the high color on her cheekbones, the brilliant shade of her hair, the way she almost sneered with her eyes alone. “You're sleeping on the floor. If you make an attempt to leave tonight, I will kill you, no hesitation. I'm taking you back to SHIELD tomorrow, where I'm sure Fury will have a job for you. Got it?” She saluted him sarcastically, slithering to the floor and curling up on her side, tucking her arm under her head like a pillow.

“Goodnight, Clint Barton,” she said dryly as he turned off the light and sank into the bed.

“Goodnight, Natalia Romanova,” he replied, rolling over and pretending he didn't hear her uncomfortable sighs on the floor.

He awoke a few hours later, the sun barely drifting over the horizon on the other side of the dirty hotel window. It wasn't until the bed shifted and he heard the soft pads of feet going into the bathroom that he realized Natalia had curled up beside him during the night.

–

“It smells like piss here,” Tasha complained, dropping her bag on the floor. Another dingy hotel, another single bed, another mission. Same old, same old.

“At least it doesn't smell like corpse,” Clint offered, setting his own case on the bed and turning to take in their new lives for the night. Mr. and Mrs. Pavlenko – identities that the pair actually enjoyed for a change – were a Russian couple visiting the beautiful city of Budapest for their honeymoon, as Mrs. Pavlenko had family here at one point. Of course Tasha did all of the talking, but Clint had picked up enough Russian to be able to corroborate the story.

Tasha didn't have to ask to know what the sleeping arrangements were for the night, or how the next morning would go; she planned this mission herself, personally requesting Clint as her partner and refusing to go through with it if he wasn't there. It wasn't entirely out of the ordinary for the two of them to request each other for partner work, but refusing a mission if it couldn't happen was definitely not in her character.

Clint climbed into bed first, settling himself underneath the sheets and getting comfortable before giving her the all-clear to join him. Since that first night in Nizhny Novgorod, when she had almost frozen in the cold on the floor, this had become the usual arrangement for them, and it suited them both just fine. Tasha, who had always had trouble staying warm, had her own personal space heater, while Clint... well.

Sometimes he would lie awake at night and pretend that, in their own way, this was their white picket fence and two-point-five children. The picket fence was the line between them and the enemy, dotted with bombs and assassins and the occasional military, and their children were their weapons, Clint's bow obviously being the golden child.

As Tasha curled up next to him, her back fitting perfectly against his chest, she wrapped his arm around her and sighed.

“You know,” she began, entwining her fingers with his and pausing for an unbearable amount of time before continuing. “Tomorrow is going to suck.” Clint chuckled, masking his nerves. The mission was to enter a crime syndicate's main headquarters and take no prisoners, but their recon had shown that the hundred soldiers manning their planned entrance would only be the first hurdle of many. Missions like this, even when executed flawlessly, required at least a week off from SHIELD afterward, and Clint had always taken pride in the fact that he never took time off.

“Yeah, it will,” he murmured against her hair, letting his eyes drift shut.

“Clint?”

“Mm?”

“There's a reason I wanted you to come out here with me.” He opened his eyes at that, furrowing his brow and propping himself up on his elbow to get a better view of her.

“Besides the fact that I am the best, not to mention devastatingly handsome?” he chirped. She turned to face him, eyes bright in the moonlight, hair cascading around her. There was a sly smile across her lips, a fire dancing inside her that both confused and intrigued him.

“You can't laugh,” she began seriously.

“I won't,” he answered.

“Or be mad.”

“I won't!”

“Or tell anyone.”

“Tasha, what--”

Her lips were on his before he could finish his thought, and he jumped back, nearly falling off the bed. He stared at her for a moment, breathless, her face crumpling in the way only hers could; turning from one full of passion to one entirely devoid of emotion.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, her voice unusually high. Clint blinked, swallowing hard, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart that only seemed to find itself in his throat when she was around. “Clint, I--”

He reached for her this time, cupping her neck as he kissed her more feverishly than he had ever kissed anyone before. She quickly matched his rhythm and intensity, pushing him over onto his back and straddling him while she ran her fingers through his hair. He sat up, her in his lap, sucking a bruise into the hollow of her collarbone as she unbuttoned her top, letting it slide to the floor.

It was not the romantic scene Clint had pictured and dreamed of for so long. Tasha's nails scraped trenches into his back, his teeth worked their way through part of her lip, and his fingers left a trail of bruises along her hips.

It was dirty, and it was rough, but this was Tasha, and this was Budapest, and he was perfectly content spending the night, possibly his last, exploring every bit of her that he could.

The next morning, they completed the mission as planned, smooth as ever despite being separated. Before Clint had the chance to ask her about their potential final night, she had immersed herself in another mission, leaving him cold and alone in a hotel in Budapest.

–

Leveling out took much longer than he had hoped it would. Months after Loki's departure, Clint still had nightmares, still woke up strangling his screams with his fist, still felt like he had been completely undone. Tasha made a point to visit him every day, to check up on him, even when she herself wasn't feeling entirely there. On those days, they would sit in Clint's living room, folded up together in his reading chair, rocking slowly and finding comfort in the warmth.

Clint was curled up in his chair alone when Tasha arrived, her arms laden with fast food of all different kinds and a canvas bag full of movies. Clint had never been one for films – most ended up just bringing back memories that he would have rather left untouched – but Tasha insisted on watching anything she could get her hands on when she came over, if only for the noise and the distraction.

She dropped the food on the table and knelt in front of him, eyes scanning his face quickly. He looked awful.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked in a clipped voice, running her hand along his jaw to find that he hadn't shaved. He shook his head. “Did you take the pills I left you?” Shake. She sighed heavily, standing up pushing him over in his chair so she could squeeze in by him, her legs draped across his lap and her forehead nestled against his neck.

“Sorry, Tasha,” he said quietly, wrapping his arms around her and holding her as close to himself as he could.

“Don't be,” she breathed, angling herself so she could see his face again. “But I have one question for you, and you need to answer me honestly as best as you can. Got it?” He frowned.

“Anything,” he replied, shifting in his seat to get a better look. “You know I'd tell you anything and everything you ask of me.”

“How do you remember Budapest?” A smile found its way to her lips, and for once, it actually traveled to her eyes as well. Clint had no choice but to chuckle.

“I remember the night before with excruciating detail,” he began slowly, gauging her reaction and judging by the fact that her smile didn't falter, continued. “And I don't seem to remember any aliens. I remember watching from the top of that building and thinking to myself, 'Last night was great, but it sure as hell better not be our last one,' and taking out anyone who came within shooting distance of you. I remember it like it happened yesterday, Tasha, clear as day.” When he finished, she didn't say anything. She just stared up at him, her expression betraying nothing, the way only hers could.

“I seem to recall some details of the night before,” she purred, biting her lip and meeting his gaze with an intensity that seemed to bring them both straight back to that dirty room in Budapest. “But maybe you could enlighten me regarding the details I seem to have missed?” She grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him up to meet her, but this kiss was much softer and gentler than the ones they had shared previously. He laughed against her lips.

“It would be my genuine pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the way I had imagined things. There will probably be a story in the future that fleshes these bits out a bit more. I cannot stand the fourth part, but hey, I needed /some/ sap in there.


End file.
